Midnight Walks

Fri, 15 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Silence.

The words won’t come. The music has gone quiet.

The writer sighs her frustration as she turns another sheet of promise into a crumpled ball of failure. As it bounces across the floor, she hears soft footsteps approaching from the bedroom. She has been asleep for hours, she must have realised the writer hasn’t joined her yet. Come to check on her, to comfort her. The writer doesn’t respond, doesn’t move at all until she feels the steady one’s fingers on her shoulders. They begin with a gentle caress but soon escalate to firm presses and strokes, massaging the tension from the writer’s neck.

She pushes her pad across the desk, caps her pen, places it back in the coffee mug with the broken handle that has held every pen she’s used since her first story was published. Her hands know her, with each squeeze, each press, the writer’s frustration retreats. She turns her head to look up and back, into her wife’s concerned, beautiful face. Carefully, the writer lifts her wife’s hand from her shoulder and kisses the back. Rising from her desk, she pulls her muse hard against her.

The kiss is hungry, the muse—the steady one—seems surprised by the ferocity, then thrusts her tongue deep into the writer’s mouth. Their tongues fence, run over teeth, retreat and advance, and when the writer moans, She pulls away. The writer gasps, eyes searching. The reader takes her by the arm, smiles, and leads her out of the house.

Fresh air.

A moonless, blue-black sky replete with stars.

The silence broken only by the susurrus of wavelets meeting the lake’s cobble beach.

Calm.

They walk along the shore, comfortable without words, until they reach the ‘hot-tub’: a nearly-enclosed pool where the lake meets the beach. The pool is spring-fed, the surface always in quiet motion and the water forever warmer than the lake, a stone ‘shelf’ just below the surface at the shoreward edge worn smooth. The writer’s eyes go wide as the grounded one begins undressing. The writer bites her lip, and slips out of her oversized shirt, then removes her bra. Goosebumps rise at the cool night air’s touch, but her wife is already nude, smiling expectantly.

The writer opens her mouth, a proclamation already on her tongue, but She places a single finger across the writer’s lips. The muse is so close her nipples brush the underside of the writer’s breasts. The writer’s breathing halts as her finger trails down the writer’s throat, between her breasts, then circles her navel. As the finger continues down and slides beneath the waistband of her pants, the writer exhales, long and slow. She arches her back, pushes her hips forward, hopeful. Expectant. The muse’s expression shifts to something darker, lustful, as she hooks her fingers into the writer’s underwear and pulls both down to mid-thigh. She moves one hand back to the writer’s hip, caressing the heart-shaped quills tattoo while her other hand pets the writer’s coarse, dark pubic hair.

The constant one kneels, her breath hot against the writer’s thighs as she guides the yoga pants and panties to the writer’s ankles. The writer steadies herself with a hand on her wife’s head and steps out of her remaining clothes. Then she feels the muse’s thumbs at her lips, gently spreading, revealing her clit, swollen and yearning. She feels the patient one’s tongue against the nubbin and the writer tangles her fingers in the muse’s hair. The muse feasts. Her fingers bite into the writer’s ass, spreading her cheeks and pulling her tight while her tongue swirls around her wife’s clit and curls down, dipping into her pussy for a taste.

The writer bucks her hips, grinding into her face as the muse probes deeper, then pulls back and nips at the writer’s clit. She tightens her grip on the muse’s hair and the muse responds by suckling at that tender knot. The writer’s awareness shrinks to this hidden space, her wife on her knees, greedily eating her slit, driving her to—

The muse pulls away and the writer’s gasp is one of almost physical pain. She looks down, and the sight of her wife’s playful smile, glistening with the writer’s juices, nearly pushes her over the edge anyway. The muse rises slowly, then laces her fingers with the writer’s and pulls her toward the pool. They enter together, the warm spring a shocking comfort against her chilled skin. The muse backs her against the smooth, mossy stone wall, and they kiss again.

The writer clutches her wife’s ass under the water and grinds her mound against the muse’s, but just as quickly the muse pulls back again. The writer breaks the kiss, a question rushing to her lips, but the answer arrives first: the eager one slides her fingers along the writer’s slit, one on either side, the middle curling up inside her. Her thumb pressing firmly down on the writer’s clit. The writer squeezes her ass cheeks harder as her pussy clutches at the invading finger.

Release rushes at her again, and is withheld. The muse withdraws, but the writer understands. She climbs the shelf and, on all fours, her body is just above the water. The confident one’s hand grips the writer’s ass and pulls them apart. A tongue flattens against the writer’s cunt, lapping from her aching entrance to her puckered asshole in one long, possessive stroke. The writer’s legs tremble, her hands are unreliable on the slick stone. The tongue focuses, circling her clit with a maddening pressure, tracing the delicate hood before curling inside, fucking her with quick, shallow thrusts making the water churn around them. The writer’s hips are bucking shamelessly, grinding against the face buried in her, chasing the climax ratcheting inside her.

The muse adds a finger, sliding it deep into her cunt while her thumb grinds her clit. The dual sensation is devastating. A second finger joins the first, curling to press against that spot inside her that she knows. Then a slick, questing thumb presses against her asshole, just circling the puckered rim in concert with fingers and tongue and the other thumb on her clit. The writer’s orgasm obliterates awareness, a white bliss while her cunt clamps down on her wife’s fingers.

The muse guides her down, cradles the writer in her lap while they sit in the warm water under the starry sky.

In her head, the writer has a symphony.

Knotty

Sapphic_marriage on Knotty Biscotti

Midnight Walks